Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series Book 3) Page 31

  Still, it was not his place to surmise what had prompted Lord Kirkpatrick’s decision, only to make the consequences of it as painless as possible. It was a piece of work which was about to become much more difficult than he could ever have anticipated.

  Her own husband notwithstanding, Pamela Riordan thought that it was possible she had never been so grateful for the presence of a man as she was for that of the small Scot, Robert MacDougall. And that it was also possible she had never been as furious at a man as she was with Lord James Kirkpatrick. Without Robert’s steady and sensible hand, she was certain she might simply have set fire to all these sets of papers, documents, ledgers, figures, facts, webs, entanglements, and walked away cursing Jamie roundly.

  She had a headache for the first week, trying to understand the labyrinth that constituted Jamie’s empire. She had more than a passing acquaintance with it already, having worked as his secretary for a brief time, but this was more a baptism by Greek fire—all-consuming and without mercy. She was still trying to absorb the fact that, in some fit of madness, Jamie had decided to hand all this over to her.

  In its entirety, it overwhelmed her—the flaxes and barley crops, the presses and parts, the boilers and reducers, the forests and mills, the forges and farms, the refineries and warehouses, the ships and silks, the cogs and wheels, both literal and figurative that in one way or another bore the imprimatur of the Kirkpatrick name. Jamie had taken all of it seriously and understood the nuts and bolts of every investment he had made. And as much as he made, he was also generous with it. The charities, thank heavens, were administered by a lawyer and weren’t something she had to deal with directly, except for those things that Jamie had done himself face-to-face, such as Nelson McGlory and his eyeglasses, chess games, dinners and outings. There were many Nelsons in Jamie’s life, and she felt guilty that she had not understood just what Jamie’s life truly entailed in all its details. But then, she supposed, there was no reason she ought to know. She was only a small corner of his life, and therefore her view was bound to be limited.

  She was shown clearly though, that Jamie’s life was lived on a level that affected entire nations and the ties between them, tenuous as they might be. It made the political world in Boston, of which she had been part for a time, seem very small potatoes in comparison. She was quick-witted enough to know there were still some very dark corners into which she could shine no light. She also knew that those dark corners were best left as they were.

  Robert was one of the lights, and had quite obviously been chosen very specifically to help her. His very presence was calming and he understood instinctively how much she could absorb on any given day. He had an extremely good mind for both finance and organization—was brilliant at it, really—which left her to wonder why he had chosen to take a position with Jamie in this manner. He was also as solid a personality as she had ever met, and completely unflappable under pressure. Which was why, when he came into the kitchen one afternoon with a very particular look on his face, she felt an immediate flutter of anxiety.

  She was having a late lunch, feeding Conor apples mashed with strawberries and chatting with Maggie.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “We have company,” Robert said and there was no mistaking the warning in his voice.

  “Who?” she asked, trying to detach Conor’s small sticky hands from her hair.

  “Jamie’s great-uncle—he says he’s Jamie’s grandfather’s brother. As far as that goes it seems to be, most unfortunately, true.”

  His tone became clear. She stood upright and looked him in the eyes. “Most unfortunately. Obviously this is not a welcome visit, nor a restoration of a family member that was missed. Would you care to fill me in?”

  “No, the tiny Scot couldn’t possibly do the story justice,” said a voice that skittered along her spine like a many-legged insect. She turned and thought Robert’s tone had not done justice to the situation, nor the man about to create it.

  It was like seeing Jamie through a long, dark glass, a glass that distorted through time and vice, through uncontrolled appetite and corruption. He was tall, but soft around his edges, with heavy hands that held several rings. The clothes were expensive, well cut, but could not hide that they shrouded a man well past his prime. Even money could not sweeten this particular visage.

  He walked toward her and her body stiffened. She had known men like him before, men without kindness, men without moral fiber or honor in even its palest shade. She was determined never to be a victim of one again.

  As he came closer, the initial illusion of him bearing any resemblance to his nephew dissipated. His eyes were a cold shade of blue, his hair was darker than Jamie’s and, she suspected, its color came from a dye bottle rather than any endowment of nature.

  He took her hand and she repressed the shudder that came naturally as he lowered his lips to touch them to her skin.

  “Well,” he said, “I certainly understand what my nephew’s thinking was when he signed over this entire estate to you.”

  “Really and what would that be?” she asked, affecting a cool tone, though he was still holding onto her hand. His touch felt like that of a reptile—clammy, chill and ravenous.

  “I don’t know his precise thoughts, but I certainly know which part of his anatomy was doing the thinking.”

  She took her hand from his with no small effort. She laid her other hand on Robert’s arm, feeling the angry words before they traversed his tongue. Neither of them was going to give this man anything he wanted if she could help it.

  “Perhaps you would be so good as to join Robert and myself, in the sitting room? Maggie, could you bring tea?”

  Maggie nodded, her look stabilizing Pamela’s backbone and resolve. From the sharp glance directed toward him, Pamela thought, Uncle Philip would be lucky if there wasn’t arsenic in his tea. She left Conor with Maggie, happily playing with a pot and spoon.

  She chose the sitting room for its formality, and because she did not want this man in Jamie’s study, even if the bulwark of the desk would have been very welcome to hide her shaking knees.

  A fire was already crackling in the grate. Maggie lit the fires in the downstairs rooms to prevent damp this time of year, despite the presence of the central heating that had been installed many years ago. It was warm and the furniture, though formal, was also comfortable. Pamela chose a chair with a stiff back, to keep her upright and placed no lower than this man. The Chinese, she knew, called it ‘face’ and she was determined to keep hers firmly in place. Robert sat to her left, slightly back, so that it would be clear to Uncle Philip that he was there guarding her side, but that it was she who was ultimately in charge.

  Maggie brought the tea, placing it on the low table that sat between them all. Pamela poured it out, the delicate scent of Earl Grey filling the air. She handed a cup to each man and then took her own, grateful for the small warmth it provided against the chill this man had brought with him into the room.

  Philip chose to go on the offensive immediately.

  “You have much to learn, my dear. In my day we didn’t allow the help into the sitting room and certainly did not let them attend on private conversations.”

  “Robert is my right hand,” she said coolly. “Any concerns you may want to place before me will also be heard by him. Now, perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me what it is you want?”

  “I think that ought to be clear,” he said, and picked up his teacup, taking a swallow of the hot brew, icy-cool eyes never once leaving her face. There was an avidity to his gaze that touched and defiled everything he looked at, as if he, like a greedy child, would eat all of it, swallowing before he could even taste.

  “Oh, it is,” Pamela said tartly. “But I should like it spelled out all the same.”

  “If my nephew is dead, and it seems that he must be, then this will,” he in
vested great scorn into the single syllable, “cannot be allowed to stand. While you are lovely, you are not blood and in this case, blood will out. This estate should have been mine when my brother passed and now, with all other heirs dead, it will be.”

  “This estate,” she said quietly, “passes to the eldest child, of which you are not one. As Jamie has no living heirs to pass it to, it was to his discretion whom he wanted as its guardian until such time as he returns home. There was no mention of you in any of the papers and we have a team of solicitors who went over all of it in fine detail with us.”

  “I too have solicitors,” he said, placing the teacup on the table. “They do not share your belief that Jamie had the legal right to leave the guardianship of this estate in the hands of whomever he pleased. They believe I have a very good case and I intend to prosecute it to the fullest extent.”

  “I believe that will be a waste of your time and money,” Pamela said, keeping her tone pleasant. “But if you wish to squander both commodities that will, of course, be your own business.”

  “Indeed it will,” his tone was pleasant too, but not without challenge. “Long ago, I approached my nephew, Jamie’s father, and asked him for what was rightfully mine. And then when he died, I asked his son. Now I find I am no longer inclined to ask but rather to tell. This house and all that is in it belongs to the Kirkpatrick family and I am, despite being Fortune’s outcast, most assuredly a Kirkpatrick. Family should administer the estate. It is unfortunate that young James has met with some terrible fate, but while it is tragic it does not alter the fact that this estate is mine, should have been mine long ago and, of course, it goes without saying that I will be claiming all the assets that go with it.”

  “I believe it shows a somewhat less than familial feeling to keep insisting that Jamie is dead, which I assure you he is not.” She smiled, for Jamie would not want her to give in to her anger at this man. She had her own fears as to the state of Jamie’s well-being, but refused to believe he was gone. This man, despite his words, had likely long wished Jamie dead. She could almost hear Jamie’s voice in her head, cautioning her to never underestimate even the most obvious adversary.

  She stood to refill the cups, adding the sugar and lemon in exact measurements. She would not allow the standards of hospitality to slip, even when the guest was overtly hostile. His eyes seemed to pluck at her neckline and pry through the very seams of her clothing. It was nearly time to nurse Conor and her breasts were taut against her blouse. She felt as though the man sensed this, or could see the change since they had left the kitchen. She felt in need of a shower, merely from the touch of his gaze. It was, she knew, very deliberate on his part.

  She sat back down, fighting the desire to wrap her sweater around herself in defense.

  “Satisfy my curiosity, will you?” he said, stroking one puffy finger along his lips. “Tell me what that much money and property buys a man?”

  “Not what you seem to think it does,” Pamela said dryly, averting the hot words she could feel bubbling up in Robert beside her. She knew, though just how she could not have said, that it was imperative that they keep their cool in the face of this threat. And that this man was a threat, she was in no doubt.

  He canted one leg over the other and leaned back. The gesture echoed his nephew, though this man’s elegance seemed a practiced, conscious part of his arsenal, whereas with Jamie it was merely a natural part of him.

  “You might be surprised what I’m thinking.” He paused for effect, “I have a very fertile imagination.”

  It was as though Robert were not even present, for the man was very clear about whom he was inviting onto the sparring field. Jamie had this skill as well, to make it seem as if there was no one else present, even when the room was crowded. But this was the inverse of Jamie’s skill, a dark feeling, as though he could touch without moving, could sense the fears that moved inside her about what sort of damage he could do, and that he fed on it.

  It had been one innuendo too much for Robert, for the small Scot stood, tone brisk.

  “I think sir, that you’ve taken up enough of Mrs. Riordan’s time and hospitality this afternoon. I believe it will surprise no one if I say that next time we meet, it should be with legal representation in attendance and in a less private venue than Lord Kirkpatrick’s home.”

  Pamela rose to stand beside Robert, aware as she did so of Philip’s eyes skimming the length of her body. She ignored it, for there was nothing else to do.

  It appeared Uncle Philip had gotten whatever it was he wanted from the meeting, for he rose as well, again with that inverted echo of practiced elegance.

  She walked him to the door alone, after giving Robert a look which conveyed that he should stay behind. She needed to show Philip that she was not afraid to be alone with him, that she had indeed been left with Jamie’s trust for reasons other than what he believed.

  He bent once again over her hand, and she allowed it, for she would not give him the pleasure of having her shake him off. He could not know how much he had discomfited her in a single meeting. His lips were cold against the back of her hand and his tongue flicked lightly along the edge between two of her fingers. The inference was inescapable, and she repressed a shudder of revulsion before gently disengaging her hand.

  “You will be seeing much more of me,” he said as he stood, “and I, of you. It would be better if you were pleasant with me, Pamela. It will go far easier for you in the end.”

  She merely showed him out the door, unwilling to give him the engagement he was looking for until she was on more certain ground.

  She let out the breath she had been holding, after barring the door behind him. Then she went to the kitchen, picked up her son, and took him to the study to nurse. The normality of it and the soft weight of Conor’s body in her arms siphoned away some of her agitation.

  Robert, who had the timing of a master statesman, rapped on the study door just as she finished nursing. He came in looking slightly grim.

  He poured them each a small tot of whiskey and set hers on the table beside her. She left it for the moment, putting Conor to her shoulder and letting his sweet weight and warmth finish the job it had begun. She felt more relaxed, though not much more capable.

  “How much of a threat is he?” she asked. She was sitting in the wingback leather chair Jamie favored. She needed some vestige of his presence to shore her up in the face of this menace.

  Robert sat across from her and took a deep breath. “I’ll not know yet, but if he’s right and Lord Kirkpatrick is dead, then your hold on things—despite the will—may be more tenuous then we would like. As the man pointed out, he is blood and, as you are well aware, Jamie made a very unexpected move by entrusting everything to your hands. I know he had very good reasons for doing so, many more than I perhaps realize, but blood is blood and will often win out in a court of law. If nothing else, he can tie our hands badly and cost us hugely in time. He could be distracting us for some other purpose, as well. Certainly it’s clear he is neither a good nor scrupulous man so we will have to be very much on our guard. Pamela—we can’t afford a single mistake or so much as a ha’penny to be unaccounted for in the company ledgers.”

  Conor sighed in repletion, his breath warm against her neck. She wanted to close her eyes as he did and go to sleep, anything to avoid thinking about this newest problem. However, it wasn’t merely about her and what suddenly seemed her frightful inadequacy. There were many other people depending on her to be strong.

  “Then that’s what we will do. Jamie trusted us to protect what he built. I refuse to let him down. If he had wanted his uncle to have anything, he would have stipulated as much in the will. Jamie is a very generous man, so if he didn’t put his uncle into the will, there’s a damn good reason why.”

  “What if…?” Robert began, but did not continue, for the words were already there between the
m, had been there during the entire conversation.

  “No,” she said fiercely, “no! Jamie is not dead. He will come home.”

  Robert’s face looked more owlish than usual, the soft light playing off his glasses.

  “I think perhaps,” he said gently, “we have to consider that he may not be able to come home, that perhaps we are indeed on our own here, Pamela.”

  “No. He will come home, Robert. He will because he has to.”

  From the Journals of James Kirkpatrick

  June____, 1962

  I am hiding. I know that well, but as hideaways go it would please even a hermit. The path down to the house runs between thick stands of pine and the pathway itself is so deep with needles you can’t even hear your own footsteps. A wee weathered gate hangs crooked as sin between two pines and is thick with a rambling rose of unknown provenance. The house itself—well, hut if we’re being strictly technical—is held together by the most frighteningly large and vengeful-looking wisteria, though from a distance the overall impression is one of great charm. Up close, you realize that without the vine the whole place would likely crumble into dust.

  Inside, it’s just rough pine planking for both floor and walls, well weathered to a deep amber and thick with the scent of summers past. A small iron bedstead holds a lumpy mattress and worn bedding that is nevertheless clean and smells of the salt and sand that impregnates every atom of air here. I can rest here. I can hide here, and maybe if I am very lucky, I can find a way to solidify this amorphous jelly of a universe I inhabit.

  June____, 1962

  In the night, this is a different country, when the fields do lie under some dark enchantment. In the night, when humanity sleeps, you can feel the ancient bones of this land twist and groan and rise ever closer to the surface. In the night, the shy creatures are abroad, the fox who gazes at the moon transfixed, the owl flying on silent wings through the mountains and streams of the air. In the night there is no law. The borders of daytime float away and the wild rules at will.